PS 2761 
.G7 
Copy 1 




X 




(DaNY Or^IGINAL ^OBMS 



/^ SUGGESTED AND ARRANGED BY 

KATE SANBORN 

It 



ILLUSTRATED BY 

WALTER SATTERLEE 



'Give me jphe good old weei^-day blossoms 

I USED mo SEE so LONG AGO, 

^ITH HEAI^my SWEETNESS IN mHEII^ BOSOMS, 

I^EADY AND GLAD TO BUD AN' BLOW."- ,■ , 






BOSTOx\ 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 

188:; 



..r,^^^ 



;v 



Tb nil 

At 



Copyright, 1882, by Kate Sanborn. 



jTranfelin i^rtBs: 

RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 
BOSTON. 




(SONTENJIIS, 



^^' HE OLD GARDEN. Rose Terry Cooke .... 5 

OUR LADY-OF-THE-LILIES. Lucy Larcom . . 8 

COUNTRY PLEASURES. George Milner ... 10 

THE GARDEN OF ''AULD LANG SYNE." Mary D. 

• Brine 11 

CHERRY BLOSSOMS. Edna Dean Proctor 14 

OUR GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S ADIEU TO HER GARDEN. Milton. 15 

AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. Julia C. R. Dorr .... 16 

MY GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. Hezekiah Butterworth . .19 

AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN OF OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS. 

Mary Russell Mitford . 22 

A SOUTHERN GARDEN. Marion Harland 24 

THE GARDENS OF THE PURITAN GRANDMOTHER. Sarah Orne 

Jewett 25 

CO RISANDE'S GARDEN. " London Society " 26 

HANNAH'S FLOWERS. "E. H. Arr" (Mrs. Ellen H. Rollins) . 28" 

DANIEL WEBSTER'S MOTHER'S GARDEN. Peter Harvey . . 20 

3 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A TRIBUTE TO THE SIMPLE NAMES OF OLD-FASHIONED 

FLOWEBS 30 

FOUR-0' CLOCKS. II. E. Sanford 31 

A VISIT TO MISS MITFORD. Catherine M. Sedgwick ... 32 

AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN IN AUTUMN. H. B. Stowe . 32 

ON GARDENS. Francis Bacon . . .33 

I LOVE A GARDEN. Thomas Hood 34 

THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. Maky Howitt 35 

GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. Charles F, Geuky .... 38 




«HE MlD #ARDEN. 



Y"/ 





T'S well enough: looks kinder knowing 

Them red and yeller leaves and things 
They make a mortal sight o' showin', 
Some like a bird that never sings. 



But birds to sing, and blows for smellin', 
Was what we had when I was young: 

A patchwork quilt is jist as tellin' 

As them things on the grassplot flung. 

You'd ought to seen my granny's gardin, 
With pinks as sweet as any spice, 

And posy-beds she worked so hard in 

To keep 'em square and clean and nice. 



Tulips — my land! their bright cups holdin' 
Right up to catch the sun and dew. 

Purple and white and brown an' golden, 
And red with sunshine streamin' through. 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 



And Canterbury-bells a-swingin', 

Dim blue like bits of April sky, 

And dancin columbines a-ringin' 
For every bee an butterfly. 

Crocus an' hyacinths an dafl'y, 

Yeller as dandelines to see, 
A-lookin' at ye kinder laughy. 

As though to say, "Why, here we be!' 

And white narcissus, straight and slender. 
With rings of red fii'e in their snow ; 

And little snowflakes, just as tender 

As things that in a greenhouse blow. 

And roses — my! that tall old white one. 
Milk with the sunrise in the cup. 

And some most red enough to fright one, 
And pink, like sea-shells curling up. 

Roses don't smell like them no longer. 

There's smoke an' bone-dust in 'em now 

Mabbe the bushes do grow stronger. 

But I'd as lieves they'd smell as grow. 

And lilies — well, they was too splendid, 
All dazzlin' white, an' gold inside. 

Jest as though Natur had intended 
To make a blossom for a bride. 



THE OLD GARDEN. 



Oh, yes ! I know your Jajt^-pan lilies, 
As big as p'inies, and as proud: 

They smell — oh my! — and amaryllis, 
No smell at all, — a pretty crowd! 

Give me the old Dutch honeysuckle 

A-makin' even the night-time sweet, 

A-blossomin' at every knuckle. 

And hangm' to your very feet. 

And pink and bufF and white carnations, 
And rosebuds snuggled up in moss, 

Heart's-ease and vi'lets, dear relations. 

And gay snapdragons, bright and cross. 

Give me the good old week-day blossoms 

1 used to see so long ago. 
With hearty sweetness in their bosoms. 

Ready and glad to bud an blow. 

Well, well, I know them days is over, 

And I have lost my clear young eyes ; 

But can't I still smell pinks and clover? 
I tell you some things never dies! 

Rose Tekky Cooke. 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 




OUR LADY-OF-THE-LILIES. 



UH Lady-of-the-lilies, 

The valley-lilies fair ! 
I Her brow was pure as any babe's, 

And silvery white her hair. 



The snows of ninety winters 
Had fallen upon her head: 

Within her clear, benignant eyes, 
A history sweet you read. 

She walked among the flowers 

That her own hands had sown: 

With lilies-of-the-valley white 
Her paths were overgrown. 

Through the old grassy garden, 
Year after year they stole : 

Theu* fragrance seemed the very breath 
Of our dear Lady's soul. 

She gave away her lilies 

Freely as Avild birds sing: 

They bore to sick and lonely ones 
The fii-st glad hint of spring. 



OUR LADY-OF-THE-LILIES. 



Our Lady-of-the-lilies 

Loved other blossoms too : 
She was our Sweet-Pea Grandmamma, - 

The dearest flower she knew. 

With early heats of summer 

Came forth the sweet-pea's blush, 

Pink as the soft tint of her cheek, 
Or sunset's last, faint flush. 

And, clipping bud and tendril 
In morning's dewiest hours, 

Her thoughts on lovely errands ran, — 
" Now who shall have my flowers \ 

Surely her love was in them. 
Like sun and dew and air ; 

For sweet-peas wonderful as hers 
Blossomed not anywhere. 

They crowded through the fence-rail, 
They sprang to meet her touch. 

All winged and waiting for a flight : 
Where shall we now find such? 

And oh ! what fairer blossoms 
Can grow around her feet 

In that new garden where she walks 
Within heaven's climate sweet? 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 



I think they must have brought her 
The dear old-fashioned flowers, 

Before her heart felt quite at home 
Even in the angels' bowers. 

" Our La4y-of-the-lilies," 

Even there her name may be ; 

While here fond memories cling to her 

As Grandmamma Sweet-Pea. 

Lucy Larcom. 



^1^^ 



<j^m 




COUNTRY PLEASURES. 

E are too apt to judge of flowers, as we do 
of men, by their great names, or by some 
exterior and vulgar quality ; or we like them 
because they are the fashion, and not by virtue 
of their own intrinsic sweetness and beauty. I have no 
wish to depreciate the splendid and ingenious productions 
of the modern florist, or to deny that a trim garden is a 
source of pleasure to me ; but I like the old-fashioned 
flowers best. In the old English flower-bed, where only 
perennials with an ancient ancestry are allowed to grow, 
there is always delight ; and I should be sorry to 
exchange its sweet flowers for any number of cartloads 
of scentless bedding-plants mechanically arranged and 
ribbon-bordered. George Milner. 

10 



THE GARDEN OF ''AULD LANG STNE. 



THE GARDEN OF "AULD LANG SYNE." 



^^^SH, far, far back, adown the years that stretch 
fffllVS between the then and now, 

\!M!/fl My memory turns, and I forget the Hnes of 
|4^^^w^. r^"f ^^y,Q upon my brow. 

And feel myself a child agam in grandma's garden, 

hard at play, — 
That quaint old place where dwelt the lights and 

shadows of the summer's day. 

I close my eyes, and seem to hear the drowsy hum of 

busy bees. 
And catch the lullaby of winds soft singing through the 

maple-trees. 
And, bordering the gravelled walk, by memory's aid I 

see once more 
The dear old flowers grandma loved and tended in those 

days of yore. 

The stately hollyhocks, which grew beside the lilies white 

and tall ; 
The wondrous sunflowers in a row beside the broken 

garden-wall ; 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 



The plump white snowballs rising from a nest of ribbon- 
grass around ; 

The flaunting tulips standing guard so boldly o'er their 
bit of ground; 



The fragrant pinks, which mingled breath with the sweet- 
marjoram and thyme, 

And watched their enterprising friends, the morning- 
glories, climb and climb. 

Until they towered o'er the porch where grandmother 
was wont to sit. 

To watch the humming-birds, and on her blue yarn 
stocking calmly knit ; 



And oh the box ! that grew so green and sturdily beside 

the walk ; 
The mint that grandma loved ; the fennel growing high 

upon its stalk ; 
The " ragged-sailors " my young hands were fond of 

pulling all apart ; 
" Sweet-Williams," and the " four-o'clocks," — oh, lovingly 

within my heart 



I hold the memory of them all, and seem again to breathe 

the air 
Of that old garden; nor can modern hothouse perfume, 

rich or rare. 



THE GARDEN OF "AULD LANG SYNE.'' 

Make me long less once more to see the dear old friends 

of "Auld lang syne," 
When life itself a garden seemed, and care touched not 

this heart of mine. 



Oh precious hours of memory when backward I can turn 

my gaze. 
And make myself a child again, happy in childhood's 

careless days ! 
Full many a joy returns to me, full many a \ision 

bright; but oh 
There's none so dear to me as grandma's garden in the 



long-ago. 



Mary D. Brine. 




GRANDMAS GARDEN. 



CHERRY-BLOSSOMS. 

ENT was dreary and late that year ; 
April to May was going ; 
But the Joitering moon refused to round, 
And the wild south-east was blowing. 

Day by day, from my wmdow high, 
I watched — a lonely warder — 

For a building bird in the garden-trees, 
Or a flower in the sheltered border. 

But I only heard the chilly rain 

On the roof of my chamber beating ; 
Or the wild sea-wind to the tossing boughs 




Its wail of wreck repeating ; 

And said, "Ah me! 'tis a weary world 
This cheerless April weather: 

The beautiful things will droop and die, — 
Blossom and bird together." 

At last the storm was spent. I slept. 
Lulled by the tired wind's sighing. 

To wake at morn, with the sunshine full 
On floor and garden lying ; — 

And lo ! the hyacinth-buds were blown ; 
A robin was softly singing ; 



OUR GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S ADIEU TO HER GARDEN, 



The cherry-blooms by the wall were white ; 
And the Easter bells were ringing ! 

It was long ago; but the memory lives; 

And in all life's Lenten sorrows,-— 
When tempests of grief and trouble beat, 

And I dread the dark to-morrows, — 

I think of the garden after the rain; 

And hope to my heart comes singing, 
''At morn the cherry-blooms will be white, 

And the Easter bells be ringing." 

Edna Dean Peoctok. 




OUR GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S ADIEU TO HER GARDEN. 



FLOWERS, 

That never will in other climate grow. 

My early visitation, and my last 

At even, which I bred up with tender hand 

From the first opening bud, and gave ye names! 

Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 

Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount? 

Paradise Lost, Book XL 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 



m 




AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 



N old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear, 
No doubt it is. I was thinking here 
Only to-day, as I sat in the sun, 
How fair was the scene I looked upon, 



Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise. 
How it might look to other eyes. 

'Tis a wide old garden. Not a bed 

Cut here and there in the turf; instead, 

The broad straight paths run east and west, 

Down which two horsemen could ride abreast, 

And north and south with an equal state, 

From the gray stone wall to the low white gate. 

And, where they cross on the middle line, 

Virgin's-bower" and wild woodbine 

Clamber and climb at their own sweet will 

Over the latticed arbor still ; 

Though, since they were planted, years have flown, 

And many a time have the roses blown. 

To the right the hill runs down to the river, 
Where the willows droop, and the aspens shiver; 



.1^^ OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 



And under the shade of the hemlock-trees 
The low ferns nod to the passing breeze ; 
There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creep, 
With a tangle of vines o'er the wooded steep. 

So quiet it is, so cool and still, 

In the green retreat of the shady hill ! 

And you scarce can tell, as you look within, 

Where the garden ends, and the woods begin ; 

But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light, 

AVhat a wealth of color, makes glad the sight ! 

E,ed roses burn in the morning glow; 
White roses profler their cups of snoAv; 
In scarlet and crimson, and cloth-of-gold. 
The zinnias flaunt and the marigold ; 
And stately and tall the lilies stand, 
Like vestal virgins, on either hand. 

Here gay sweet-peas, like butterflies. 
Flutter and dance under summer skies ; 
Blue violets here in the shade are set. 
With a border of fragrant mignonette ; 
And here are pansies and columbine. 
And the burning stars of the cypress-vine. 

Stately hollyhocks, row on row. 
Golden sunflowers all aglow. 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 



Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue, 
Asters of every shade and hue ; 
And over the wall, like a trail of fire, . 
The red nasturtium climbs high and higher. 

My lady's-slippers are fair to see, 

And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be, 

With gillyflowers and mourning-brides, 

And many another flower besides. 

Do you see that rose without a thorn? 

It was planted the year my Hal was born. 



And he is a man now. Yes, my dear, 
An old-fashioned garden. But, sitting here, 
I think how often lover and maid 
Down these long flowery paths have strayed, 
And how little feet have over them run 
That will stir no more in shade or sun. 



As one who reads from an open book, 
On these fair luminous scrolls I look ; 
And all the story of life is there, — 
Its loves and losses, hope and despair. 
An old-fashioned garden — but to my eyes 
Fair as the hills of paradise. 

Julia C. R. Dorr. 



MY GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. 



MY GRANDMOTHER'S GAJ DEN. 




Y grandmother's garden ! how well I remember 
That spot that delighted my eyes when a boy ! 
From the balm-breathing June to the mellowed 
September 
I hailed its fresh blossoms each morning with joy. 

In fancy I see it when eve dark and chilly, 
O'ercasting the city, forbids me to roam : 

In memory blossoms the rose and the lily 

When solitude freshens the pictures of home. 

I seem on the garden-gate swinging and siiiging, 
Or on the bars leaning in summer eves long ; 

And, waiting my father his team homeward bringing, 
I list once again to the whippoorwill's song. 

1 remember the porch where the woodbine in clusters 
Of billowy green o'er the white roses hung ; 

Thp swallows, whose purple and emerald lustres 

Shot swift through the air where the orioles sung. 



O'er the old mossy wall, in the mellow airs blowing, 
The lilacs made fragrant the evenings of May ; 



GRANDMA'S GxiRDEN. 



And close by the door where the house-leeks were 
growing, 
My grandmother's garden, my pleasure-ground, lay. 

A-near was the orchard, the moss to it clinging, 

The home of the birds and the banquet of bees : 

There oft, when the Whitsuntide church-bells were 
ringing. 
Like hills of red roses trees flamed over trees. 

My grandmother's garden with green box was bor- 
dered ; 
There bloomed the blue myrtles, the first flowers 
of spring ; 
There the peony's leaves seemed with pansies embroi- 
dered ; 
And hands of the fairies the bluebells to swing. 

The balm-bed was there ; the sweets from its flowers 
The humming-birds, gemming the air, came to draw : 

And peeped from the woodbine and jessamine bowers 
The hives of the honey-bees golden with straw. 

There oft, with her hymn-book, my grandmother wan- 
dered. 
Then seated herself in the arbor alone, 
And read the old hymns, and on holy themes pon- 
dered. 
While long on the hilltops the western light shone. 

20 



MY GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. 



They are gone, all are gone, whom that garden once 
gladdened : 
No more shall I see them, — the young or the old : 
Nor my grandmother's face with long memories sad- 
dened ; 
Her crown of bright silver is changed into gold. 

Dimmer light have the springs and the summers that 
follow ; 
* The charm of the roses is not now as then ; 
In duller-gold skies flits the purple-winged swallow: 
My heart ne'er will feel its old freshness again. 

The joys youth expected were lost in the winning; 

The distance enchanting from death's door is gone ; 
And life a lost thread, like the firefly's, is spinning : 

I am lonely at night, and am weary at morn. 

But oft, with emotion that time doth not harden, 
I turn to my old home, its lessons recall ; 

And the brightest of scenes is my grandmother's garden, 
Its pansies of spring, and its asters of fall. 

And wherever I roam, in whatever bright harbor 
The anchor may drop, I remember with joy 

The prayers that in summer-time rose from the arbor 
In that blooming garden when I was a boy. 

Hezekiah Butterworth. 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 



AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN OF OLD-FASHIONED 

FLOWERS. 



i^^^-. 




EN having said that half the parish had 
mounted on a hay-rick close by to look at 
my garden, which lies beneath it (an acre of 
flowers rich in color as a painter's palette), 
I could not resist the sight of the ladder, and one evening, 
when all the men were away, climbed up to take myself 
a view of my flowery domain. I wish you could see it ! 
— masses of the Siberian larkspur and Sweet-Williams 
(mostly double) ; the still brighter new larkspur, rich as 
an Oriental butterfly — such a size and such a blue ! — 
amongst roses in millions, with the blue and white Can- 
terbury-bells (also double), and the white foxglove, and 
the variegated monkshood ; the carmine pea in its stal- 
wart beauty ; the nemophila, like the sky above its head ; 
the new erysinum, with its gay orange tufts ; hundreds 
of lesser annuals ; and fuchsias, zinnias, salvias, geraniums, 
past computation. So bright are the flowers, that the 
green really does not predominate amongst them. 

To Miss Bareett. 

Three-Mile Ckoss, June 20, 1842. 

My dear Love, — I write to say that on Saturday next 
we shall send you some flowers. Oh, how I wish we 
could transport you into the garden where they grow ! 

22 



AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 



You would like it, it is so pretty. One side, a hedge 
of hawthorn, with giant trees rising above it beyond the 
hedge, whilst all down within the garden are clumps of 
matchless hollyhocks and splendid dahlias ; the top of 
the garden being shut in by the old irregular cottage, 
with its dark brick-work covered with vines and roses, 
and its picturesque chimneys mingling with the bay-tree, 
again rising into its bright and shining cone, and two old 
pear-trees festooned with honeysuckle ; the bottom of the 
garden and the remaining side consisting of lower hedge- 
rows melting into wooded uplands, dotted with white 
cottages, and patches of common. Nothing can well be 
imagined more beautitul than this little bit of ground is now. 
Huge masses of lupines (say fifty or sixty spiral spikes), 
some white, some lilac ; immense clumps of the enam- 
elled Siberian larkspur, glittering like some enormous 
Chinese jar ; the white- and-azure blossoms of the varie- 
gated monkshood ; flags of all colors ; roses of every shade, 
some covering the house and stables, and over- topping 
the roofs, others mingling with tall apple-trees, others 
again, especially the beautiful double Scotch rose, low but 
broad, standing in bright relief to the blues and purples ; 
and the Oriental poppy, like an orange lamp, for it really 
seems to have light within it, shining amidst the deeper 
greens; above all, the pyramid of geraniums, beautiful 
beyond all beauty, rising in front of our garden-room, 
whilst each corner is filled with the same beautiful flower, 
and the whole air perfumed by the delicious honeysuckle. 
Nothing can be more lovely. 

Mary Russell Mitford. 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN, 



A SOUTHERN GARDEN. 



HE house was of brick, large and commodious ; 
and flanked by neat out-houses and servants' 
1 quarters, presented an imposing appearance, an 
' air of lordly beauty. The shade-trees were 
forest-born, — the maple, oak, beech, and, fairest of all, the 
tulip-poplar. Excepting in the greenhouse, on the south 
side of the mansion, and a rose-creeper that climbed 
upon the piazza, not a flower was tolerated within 
the spacious yard ; and the sward was always green 
and smooth. 

In the garden, beauty and utility joined hands, and 
danced together down the walks. There were squares 
of thrifty vegetables, deserving a home in the visioned 
Eden of an ambitious horticulturist ; and the banished 
floral treasures here expanded in every variety of hue 
and fragrance. The enclosure was well stocked -with 
fruit-trees, currant and raspberry bushes ; and at the 
angles formed by the straight, broad walks were clumps 
of lilacs and snowballs (their stems hoary with moss), 
thickets of cinnamon and damask roses, white and red, 
or, standing up erect and stiff, a calycanthus-tree. There 
grew the dwarf lilac and the jessamine family, — the 
star, the Catalonian, the white and yellow, — thatching 
one arbor ; while the odorous Florida, the coral, and the 

24 



QAHDENS OF THE PURITAN GRANDMOTHER. 



more common but dearer garden honeysuckles, wreathed 
their lithe tendrils over another ; and ever-blowing wall- 
flowers, humble and sweet, gaudy beds of carnations, 
brightly-smiling coreopsis, and pure liHes with their fra- 
grant hearts powdered with golden dust, — a witching 
wilderness of delights. 

Makion Harland. 



THE GARDENS OF THE PURITAN GRANDMOTHER. 



HERE is a great pathos in the fact, that, in 
so stern and hard a life, there was time or 
place for any gardens at all. I can picture 
to myself the little slips and cuttings that had 
been brought over in the ship, and more carefully guarded 
than any of the household gods. 

I can see the women looking at them tearfully when 
they came into bloom, because nothing else could be a 
better reminder of their old home. What fears there 
must have been lest the fii'st winter's cold might kill 
them ! and with love and care they must have been tended. 

. . . Those earliest gardens were very pathetic in 
the contrast of their extent, and their power of sug- 
gestion and association. Every seed that came up was 
thanked for its kindness, and every flower that bloomed 
was the child of a beloved ancestry. 

Sarah Orxe Jeavett 

{From Atlantic Monthly/). 



25 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 




CORISANDE'S GARDEN. 



"No flowers are admitted that have not perfume," said the duchess to 
Lothair. " It is very old-fashioned." 

TUKN the printed leaves, and fancy brings me. 

Without command, 
To where thy garden wondrously enrings me, 

O Corisande ! 

I tread the turfen terraces, luxurious, 

Its ancient pride, 
With golden yew cut into arches, curious, 

Along one side. 

x\nd over me and round me float inthralling 

Its perfume sweet, 
With sunny sheen and dusky shadow falling 

About my feet. 

They call thy garden, Corisande, old-fashioned, 

A garden where 
The flowers breathe their lives away, imprisoned. 

To scent the air. 

Where woodbines wander, and the wall-flower pushes 

Its way alone, 
And where, in wafts of fragrance, sweet-brier bushes 

Make themselves known, 



CORISANDE'S GARDEN. 



With banks of violets for southern breezes 

To seek and find, 
And starred and treUised jessamine, that pleases 

The summer wind. 

And here the flowers' queen, in perfect beauty 

And calm repose. 
Leads a soft life of perfume, with one duty, — 

To be a rose. 

And clove-carnations overgrow the places 

Where they were set. 
And mist-like in the intervening spaces 

Creep mignonette. 

With purple stocks, in sudden breezes swerving. 

And lilies white, 
As if their lifted petals tender curving, 

Held heaven's light. 

And tangled wantonly, together growing, 

Are frail sweet-peas ; 
And all above them, ever coming, going, 

Communist bees. 

O sunlit, soft-hued place for love and lovers ! 

In all thine air 
Some reminiscence of lost Eden hovers 

And makes thee fair. 



London Society, 

27 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 




HANNAH'S FLOWERS. 

ID you ever have an old-fashioned flower-bed in a 
country garden, — a long, narrow strip of mellow 
earth, sow^n crosswise in rows, with various kinds 
of seeds? You sprinkle these seeds in little 
furrows a foot apart, pat a thin layer of earth over them, 
and wait. After a warm shower some late May morning, 
you find your bed full of ridges, with here and there a 
crack. In a few hours these cracks have run along the 
ridges, and from them spring a host of tiny leaves, most 
of them in pairs. You can almost see them grow." 

I do not see such roses now, so full of scent, so deep- 
dyed, as the double damask and white ones which blos- 
somed in my grandmother's garden. It seems as if they 
must have gotten their strength from the rugged soil. The 
damask ones were like peonies for size ; and their bushes, 
thick with full-blown flowers and buds, in every stage of 
opening, were only surpassed for beauty by those of the 
creamy- white rose, which were as soft- tinted as the first 
blush of dawn, and daintily scented as the quickening 
breath of spring. 

Hannah's flowers were all sweet-smelling, gracious, hardy, 
grateful things. Her pinks were marvels for color and 
scent. Her bachelor's-buttons, blue and purple and white, 
perfumed the morning. Her columbines, wdld denizens of 
the garden, kept always a woodland flavor. They got mixed 
and unsettled as to color, but held fast their untamed nature. 



DANIEL WEBSTER'S MOTHER'S GARDEN. 

The pride of the garden were the two peony-roots jnst 
inside the gate on either side. They were amongst the 
earhest comers in spring, peeping np out of the brown 
mould with their great crimson leaf-buds, which speedily 
thrust up into strong stocks, to be the bearers of as many 
blossoms. How those peonies grew ! New stocks came up 
every year, and each new stock seemed to bring with it 
a peony heavier and deeper-dyed than before. Jonathan 
tied them up every season ; but still they waxed bigger and 
bigger, until a barrel-hoop would not hold them. They were 
the envy of all the children, and the admiration of farmers' 

wives. ^ ^^^ UE. H. AiiE." 

(Mrs. Ellen H. Rollins.) 





^ANIEL WEBSTER always kept his mother's old 
garden in good condition, ordering his factotum 
John Taylor to do so, if it required the labor of 
an extra hand. Till death he loved the flowers 
that used to bloom there. The common carnation-pink 
never failed to be acceptable to him on this account, and 
he always received a bouquet of these flowers with peculiar 
gratitude. At the time of his great reception in Boston, 
from the thousands of elegant bouquets showered upon his 
head as he drove through the streets, a niece of his selected 
a bunch of carnation-pinks, and presented them to him. 

He kissed the hand of the donor, saying, " How fra- 
grant, how delightful, are these little flowers, such as 
bloomed in my mother's garden ! " 



Petek Harvey. 

29 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 




A TRIBUTE TO THE SIMPLE NAMES OF OLD- 
FASHIONED FLOWERS. 



UE-ELY there is marked character enough about 
every plant to give it some simple English name, 
without drawing either upon living characters or 
dead languages. It is hard work to make the 
maurandias and alstrsemerias and eschschotzias — the com- 
monest flowers of our modern gardens — look passable even 
in prose. They are sad dead letters in the glowing descrip- 
tion of a bright scene in June. But what are these to 
the pollopostemonopetalae and eleutheromacrostemones of 
Wachendorf, with such daily additions as the native name 
of Iztactepoteacuxochitl icohuoey, or the more classical 
ponderosity of Evisymum Peroffskganum, like the verbum 
Graecum, Spermagoraiolekitholakanopoledes, — words that 
should only be said upon holiday, when one has nothing else 
to do ! As to poetry attempting to immortalize a modern 
bouquet, it is utterly hopeless ; and if our cultivators expect 
to have their new varieties handed down to posterity, they 
must return to such musical sounds as eglantine and cow- 
slip, cuckoo-pint and primrose, or such as our " plainer 
sires " gave in larkspur and honeysuckle, ragged-robin and 
love-lies-bleeding, before bards will adopt their pets into 
immortal song. 



FOUE-O' CLOCKS. 




FOUR-O'CLOCKS. 



OUR O'CLOCK, the resting-time of the day ; 
Sunlight with shade a fantastic patchwork 
weaves, 
But the shadows lengthen : the wind, while dying 
away, 
Lingers to rustle the quivering aspen-leaves. 



I'm under the pear-tree, sitting all alone : 

My garden is gay with asters, pinks, and phlox, 

And many a posy for others' pleasure sown ; 

But here, for myself, I have planted four-o'clocks. 

" Old-fashioned," you think, and cannot my choice approve ; 

Rarer blossoms your fancy craves, no doubt ; 
But, after all, it isn't the flowers we love. 

But the dear old times that they make us think about. 

It's a way they have of making us love them so ; 

We care not long how fragrant and gay they may be ; 
But deep in our hearts they strike their roots and grow. 

Tangled and twined with various memory. 

H. E. Sanfoed. 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 



MISS SEDGWICK'S VISIT TO MISS MITFORD. 




HE led us directly through her house into her 
garden, a perfect bouquet of flowers. " I must 
show you my geraniums while it is light, for 
I love them next to my father." The garden 
is tilled, matted, with flowering shrubs and vines. The 
trees are wreathed with honeysuckles and roses, and the 
girls have brought away the most splendid sj)ecimens of 
heart's-ease to press in their journals. Oh that I could 
give my countrywomen a vision of this little paradise of 
flowers, that they might learn how taste, industry, and an 
earnest love and study of the art of garden-culture, might 
triumph over small space and humble means ! 



AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN IN AUTUMN. 



HE house stood almost concealed amid a. forest 
of apple-trees, in spring blushing with blos- 
soms, and in autumn golden with fruit. 

And near by might be seen the garden, sur- 
rounded by a red picket-fence, enclosing all sorts of mag- 
nificence. 

.32 




FRANCIS BACON ON GARDENS, 



There in autumn might be seen abundant squash- 
vines, which seemed puzzled for room where to bestow 
themselves, and bright golden squashes, and full-orbed 
yellow pumpkins, looking as satisfied as the evening sun 
when he has just had his face washed in a shower, 
and is sinking soberly to bed. There were superannuated 
seed-cucumbers, enjoying the pleasures of a contempla- 
tive old age ; and Indian corn nicely done up in green 
silk, with a specimen tassel hanging at the end of each 
ear. The beams of the summer sun darted through 
rows of crimson currants, abounding on bushes by the 
fence, while a sulky black-currant bush sat scowling in 
one corner, a sort of garden curiosity. 

Miis. H. B. Stowe. 




FRANCIS BACON ON GARDENS. 



OD ALMIGHTY first planted a garden, and 
indeed it is the purest of human pleasures. 
. . . I do hold it, in the royal ordering of 
gardens, there ought to be gardens for every 

month in the year, in which, severally, things of beauty 

may be there in season. 




GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 



LOVE A GARDEN. 




ND so do I," '-and I," "and I," exclaim in 
chorus all the he and she fellows of the Horti- 
cultural Society. 

" And I," whispers the philosophical ghost of 
Lord Bacon. 

" And I," sings the poetical spirit of Andrew Marvel. 

" Et moi aussi^' chimes in the shade of Delille. 

" And I," says the spectre of Sir William Temple, 

echoed by Pope and Darwin, and a host of the English 

poets, the sonorous voice of Milton resounding above 

them all. 

" And I," murmurs the apparition of Boccaccio. 
" And I," " and I," sob two invisibles, remembering 
Eden. 

(What a string I have touched !) 
" We all love a garden ! " shout millions of human 
voices, male and female, and juvenile, base, tenor, and 
treble. From the east, the west, the north, and the 
south, the universal burden swells on the wind, as if 
declaring in a roll of thunder that we all love a garden. 

Thomas Hood. 




THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. 




THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. 



HE rich man in his garden walks, 
And 'neath his garden trees : 
Wrapped in a dream of other things, 
He seems to take his ease. * 



One moment he beholds his flowers, 
The next they are forgot : 

He eateth of his rarest fruits 

As though he ate them not. 

It is not with the poor man so : 
He knows each inch of ground. 

And every single plant and flower 
That grows within its bound. 

He knows where grow his wall-flowers, 
And when they will be out. 

His moss-rose, and convolvulus 
That twines his pales about. 

He knows his red Sweet-Williams, 

And the stocks that cost him dear. 

That well-set row of crimson stocks ; 
For he bought the seed last year. 



35 



GRANDMA'S GAUDEN. 



A rich man has his wall-fruit, 

And his delicious vines, 
His fruit for every season, 

His melons, and his pines. 

The poor man has his gooseberries, 
His currants white and red. 

His apple and his damson tree. 
And a little strawberry-bed. 

A happy man he thinks himself, 
A man that's passing well, 

To have some fruit for the children, 
And some besides to sell. 

Around the rich man's trellised bower 
Gay, costly creepers run : 

The poor man has his scarlet-beans 
To screen him from the sun. 

And there before the little bench, 
O'ershadowed by the bower, 

Grow southernwood and lemon-thyme, 
Sweet-pea and gilly-flower. 

And pinks and clove-carnations, 
Rich scented, side by side, 

And at the end a hollyhock. 

With an edge of London-pride. 



THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. 



And here the old grandmother comes 
When her day's work is done ; 

And here they bring the sickly babe, 
To cheer it in the sun. 

And here, on sabbath mornings. 

The goodman comes to get 
His Sunday nosegay, — moss-rose bud, 

White pink, and mignonette. 

Yes, in the poor man's garden grow 

Far more than herbs and flowers, — 

Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind. 
And joy for weary hours. 

Mary Howitt. 




GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 



GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. 




SUNNY spot of boyhood years 
Was grandma's garden olden : 

Its fragrance rare comes floating back 
O'er forty summers golden. 



I see the yellow marigold ; 

The fringed '* chiny-aster ; " 
And morning-glories pink and red, 

And white, like alabaster ; 

The peony, with wealth of bloom ; 

The patch of striped grasses ; 
The four-o'clocks and London-prides ; 

And pinks in fragrant masses. 

The lilac, standing by the door, 
Was one of that collection, 

And always showed a wealth of bloom 
In time of ' old election." 

The poppy, too, was not forgot, 
Nor crimson prince's-feather : 

Oh. what a swamp of beauty rare 
Was growing up together ! 



GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN 



And when the early blossoms came 

Our garden-patch adorning, 
How joyfully I watched for them 

Each fragrance-laden morning ! 

All through the long, bright summer days, 

It proved a home of pleasure 
For humming-birds and butterflies 

That sought its hidden treasure. 

But she who planted them is gone 

Where bright ones greet the comer. 

And where the flowers richly bloom 
Through one eternal summer. 

Charles F. Gebry. 




f 



Q cSU^'^^^^sS^ 



L-S,.,,"'^ CONGRESS - 





'/u^/>-M-. 



